


Whumptober 2019

by spiderboyneedsahug



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Illnesses, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, Whumptober 2019, and i'm back again lads hello, i know those two contradict but you'll see why later okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-08 22:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20842973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: A series of ficlets inspired by the Whumptober 2019 prompt list. Enjoy.





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> welcome back.

From the second that he... would ‘reform’ be the correct word? Maybe ‘un-disintegrate’. Or ‘comes back to life’. The last one brings a slew of unpleasant memories, of pain and unceasing aches, of holding on tightly and still being ripped away, of… 

From the very second that he reforms, Peter can feel his hands shaking. It’s in part due to the rush of adrenaline still rushing through his veins from when everything went black and he went to sleep, in part due to the fact that some strange, caped dude is stood over him, shaking his shoulders, calling his-

“Kid. Hey, kid! Are you with me?!”

_ The wizard?! _

“What- what happened? Wizard? What’s going on? What happened to me, what happened to-“ Peter gasps, sputtering on his newly reformed lungs as he realises- he’s on the floor. Not in safe arms like before,  _ “where’s Mr. Stark?!” _

“Earth.” The wizard says, and his expression is troubled. Peter pushes himself upright, stumbling when his staticky legs give out. 

“Hey, I got you, kid.” Says another guy- Quill? Was it? Quill holds him up, expression awash with sadness and guilt- he’s being held close to Quill’s chest now, a hand at his back. 

A hug. Quill smells like worn leather and some kind of fuel. It’s pleasant. He’s being… hugged. Why? 

“Kid, you’re… you’re crying.” 

Sensation is still returning to his body. Most of him is still tingly and aching. The phantom impression of Mr. Stark holding him close is the only sensation resembling comfort, and the arms around him, despite being an appreciated gesture, feel wrong. 

But now that it’s been said, Peter feels the thin, cold, damp tracks running down his cheeks. 

His hands are still shaking. 

“Kid.” The wizard says. His expression is harder to read, but his eyes betray him. 

His spider-sense kicks in with a dull shriek, and with it, the innate sensation that he is so terribly, terribly disjointed from the universe. He gasps, and clutches at the back of his head. The lady… was it Mantis? She blinks at him, eyes turning teary, before she’s reaching out, clutching at his hand-

Calm descends over him. His breathing levels out. He nods in her direction and she smiles a little bit, but the wind that takes through the air is all the noise there is. 

“It’s been five years.” The wizard says. It’s loud. It’s unwelcome. Behind him, Quill tenses and swears. Before him, the buff dude and Mantis blink, dumbfounded. Peter himself stops breathing. 

Quietly, Peter hears the rattling of his wrist bracers as his hands shake. His hearing, his smell, his sight, his sensations, his taste — they’ve all returned, now. 

The world is woozy and his stomach does flips. He’s never felt so displaced ever before in his life. 

“There’s a fight on Earth. It’s Thanos. They need our help right about now. I’ll ask you all this only once: are you able and willing to fight again?” 

“We have to,” Peter hears himself say, and his voice is still thick with tears, “we have to help them.”

Quill. Mantis. The buff dude. 

They all nod. 

The wizard nods himself. Takes a breath. 

Peter braces as the golden, flickering portal opens, and inside it, a barren, war-torn landscape appears. He can see more portals through their one, hundreds upon hundreds of people pouring out of them — Thanos stands tall, his army backing him. 

Peter notes the lack of a gauntlet on his fist, and a knot in his chest unwinds. 

Strange goes through first. Then Quill. Then Mantis and the buff guy. 

The Iron Spider mask forms over his face. 

Spider-Man swings through the portal, into the fray. 

The first thing he notes is that- is that- 

The Compound… his second home… 

Gone. Blown off the face of the planet, little more than rubble and dust. 

The mask falls from his face, retracting into his suit. Peter searches frantically, heart flying and breaths choking, to see… 

Mr. Stark’s eyes meet his, and Peter watches a hopeful and simultaneously grievous expression bleed into his eyes. 

There isn’t enough time to think about that. 

The fight starts and Peter is immediately rushed off his feet. 

There’s a brief moment of respite, when a massive dude — the same guy he saved Mr. Stark from in New York five years ago, before they went to space — is about to crush his mentor again. Peter’s mind blanks and his body moves on instincts alone, pulling the guy away from Mr. Stark with Ant-Man — Giant Ant-Man — stomps the bad dude dead. 

Mr. Stark blinks. Meets his eyes. Peter hops down and runs over, helping him back up, trying to hold himself together as flashes of pain and dust and last hugs flood his mind once again. He rambles to distract himself from that knowledge and just-

Mr. Stark hugs him tight, holding him like a small child. Peter relaxes into the contact, and for the first time since waking up, his hands stop shaking. 

“Oh. This is nice.” He hears himself say. Mr. Stark chokes on a wet laugh. There’s some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes, but they’re shining and- he needs to make sure Mr. Stark doesn’t feel bad about his- death… after this all ends. He needs to tell him it’s okay. 

The battle rages around them, and they have to separate to continue fighting. Peter’s hands tremble again, but much less than before, as he springs into the fray. His strength, unbound and at its fullest, is not enough to ward off Thanos’ monsters. Instant kill is,  _ barely. _

And then the Black Panther guy is struggling, and- 

Peter sees an Infinity Gauntlet, and his mind blanks, and he’s moving before he can even consider it. He launches himself through the air. He webs the gauntlet, and pulls it up into his chest. 

The gauntlet hits him with a  _ thwack, _ and Peter catches it and holds it close, and Peter  _ moves, _ despite how his hands shake so hard that the only thing keeping his grip on the gauntlet is his ability to stick. 

He shoves down the memories of dust, and pain, and emptiness when the eerie glow of the stones catches his eyes. Not even the knowledge that,  _ holy shit,  _ he’s riding on a real life  _ Pegasus _ right now, is enough to distract him from the horrors that threaten to choke him. 

His body feels wrong. His hands clatter against the gauntlet. 

The massive starship in the sky rains fire upon the ground. It flings him off the Pegasus. The Iron Spider suit does an admirable job of keeping him alive, but a shot mere millimetres in front of him sends him flying back, and he’s unable to do anything more than curl into a tiny ball, shield his head, and try to protect himself from death. The gauntlet slips his mind as he trembles against the small nook that shields him. 

He wants Mr. Stark. 

Then the chaos stops. 

The world turns deathly quiet. his ears are still ringing from the explosions. 

The starship falls out of the sky, and a lady swathed in a corona of light drops in front of him. Her name is Carol. Peter thinks she’s the coolest thing he’s seen today. With trembling hands he reaches out and hands over the gauntlet, unable to do anything more than watch as Carol stands against Thanos’ army with enough power to make him double-take. The fighting begins anew after that. 

Shaking, Peter stands up and gets lost in a flurry of punches, of violent kicks and webs, and he can only watch as the battle ends, uncomprehending. 

“I am Iron Man,” Mr. Stark says, and Peter’s hands are motionless as the world is engulfed in light. 


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s so early right now........i can still see the stars out. i think it’s going to be a nice day today. enjoy the sun today people, take it easy and have a good day

The world is ringing. 

Peter feels a groan vibrate in his throat. He tries to stand, and falls into a wall near-instantly; the world has tangled itself around his feet like some elaborate snare. He slams into the floor, and clenches his fist against jagged concrete. Did he-? 

What happened? 

Peter claps his hands over his ears, eyes closed tightly, and when he tries to speak, nothing comes out. It takes the use of his sticky-powers and all the will in his body to pull himself upright, leaning heavily against a partially-totalled brick wall, panting in laboured breaths quietly. 

He can feel his larynx vibrate as he speaks, but nothing is coming out. 

Beyond the ringing in his ears, the world is absolutely silent. 

Peter’s eyes fly open wide and he curses loudly, and freely. 

He forgets about the bad guy with the bombs, he forgets about the explosions that had rocked Brooklyn, he forgets about his detour from Queens to check out the ruckus, he only pays attention to the gaping void in his senses where sounds were meant to fit. 

He’s saying something, over and over. Maybe he’s concussed, too — his head’s all foggy. What happened? The guy. The bombs. The explosions. Getting caught in the fight, or was it sticking his nose right in like usual? Being out of his element. The Avengers arriving as back-up. His joy at fighting alongside his idols. 

His dread when he noticed the bad guy about to take a shot at Rhodey’s exposed back. 

The near-suicide manoeuvre he had to pull off to get them both out of the direct line of fire. 

Peter coughs. Looks up. 

No wonder his head hurt; it looks a lot like he got punted through a few thick layers of concrete to get down here. 

Peter tries to stand without the wall, and manages to stumble a few steps before it becomes obvious that his other senses are now trying to overcompensate for his hearing — the amount of input he’s getting, the light through the shattered windows and the ceiling-hole, the vibrations of conflict in the building through the floor, the taste and smell of concrete dust and iron oxide and smoke and-

Peter collapses to the floor, crying. He knows he’s crying from his hitching breaths and the sodden mask. The world won’t stop tilting. He slams his eyes shut and holds his breath to stop the hyperventilation from making him pass out.

_ He can’t hear a damn thing.  _

Something heavy smacks into his shoulders. The vibrations of his larynx are of a higher frequency; he probably just screeched or something equally mortifying, and he bolts away from the thing that touched him

Or tries to. The world is still too busy snagging his ankles to let him get further than a meter or two. 

One, two, three, four, five — and a bigger, sixth impact right in front of him. 

Tapping. 

Peter blearily opens an eye by a millimetre or two, and rests his palm flat on the ground to feel the impacts more clearly. 

_ Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap. Taptap.  _

That’s morse code. 

_ Mr. Stark.  _

Peter keeps saying whatever the hell he’s been saying for the past few minutes over and over. He fumbles and rips off his mask, crawling over to Mr. Stark — the Iron Man suit was those heavy impacts, it was Mr. Stark. 

He keeps saying something, now sobbing hysterically. He can’t open his eyes enough to see Mr. Stark’s reaction. Peter reaches out to Mr. Stark, feeling for his armour to pull himself closer without his overly sensitive eyes’ assistance. 

Except when his finger brush against the armour, it pulls back out of his reach. Peter barely opens his other eye, and the silver-red blob that is Mr. Stark’s Iron Man suit stands up, away from him. 

Peter falls to the floor, arm still outstretched, eyes screwing shut once again. The pain in his chest is matched only by the ringing in his ears; unignorable and wrenching. 

He can’t hear. He can’t hear. He can’t hear. 

He can’t hear anything. 

He’s too busy hyperventilating to respond when two hands roll him onto his front, pull him upright, and into- 

_ Thu-thump.  _

The arms — Mr. Stark’s? — wrap around him, and he is slowly, gently pulled into a hug. His head rests on the person’s chest. Peter shakily brings his arms to rest at Mr. Stark’s back, palms splayed. 

_ Thu-thump.  _

Peter jerks to a halt, and it becomes slightly easier to breathe. He can feel it. 

_ Thu-thump.  _

He can feel the heartbeat he’d usually listen so closely for. 

A few silent minutes pass, and eventually, Peter’s senses have fallen into regulation. Slowly, carefully, he opens his eyes. 

Mr. Stark is looking at him. His eyes are oh-so concerned, and his mouth is moving. 

“I can’t hear you.” Peter says. He hopes he didn’t just shout at Mr. Stark. He really does. There’s a series of taps against the floor that he struggles to make out, but he’s pretty sure Mr. Stark just told him to follow him. He numbly pulls his mask back over his face. He’s pretty sure there are no surviving intact cameras to see his face in full, but the risk isn’t worth it. 

Shakily, Peter stands. His head is pounding still. He has to lean against Mr. Stark just to walk straight. The hand between his shoulder blades rubs soothing circles, and occasionally taps out a comforting word or two. 

_ You’re okay.  _

_ Don’t worry.  _

_ You’ll be fine.  _

_ I got you, kid.  _

When they board the Quinjet, Peter is still firmly attached to Tony’s side. He doesn’t let go, even when everyone’s attention turns to the ceiling — FRIDAY must be saying something — and everyone relaxes all at once. 

Mr. Stark begins furiously tapping for several minutes. 

_ It’s temporary. Your hearing will come back... You ever heard of tinnitus? You’re healing already.  _

Peter chokes on a sob, and Mr. Stark hugs him again. 

He’ll be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not usually so tired. college is pretty hectic and i never would have guessed. who knew? have a great day!


	3. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m really tired right now. I also have a test tomorrow morning. I hope I’ll do alright.

When FRIDAY had told him that the kid had gotten a little sick in the night, Tony hadn’t thought much of it. Kids were walking, talking germ machines, right? They were supposed to get ill all the time, right? 

When FRIDAY said Peter was sick, Tony had thought of it as a sort of, ‘oh no, the kid has the sniffles, let’s take it easy today, maybe watch some movies’, an event that would not need much more attention than that. 

What FRIDAY failed to mention, was that the kid had the damned flu, and when she said he was sick, she meant it  _ oh-so very literally. _ Cue waking up in the middle of the night to head out and check what all the fuss was about, only to see the kid half out of his mind from fever, little more than a trembling pile of blankets hanging off his bed right next to a puddle of  _ holy-fuck-that’s-gross-what-do-I-do.  _

Tony sits in the common area, out of Peter’s room that probably needs a new carpet, with the perpetrator himself leaning against him heavily, sniffling like there’s no tomorrow. 

He’s  _ definitely _ going to get sick. 

And then he’s definitely going to pester Rhodey, ‘cause he hasn’t really had the flu since MIT, and that’s too good an opportunity to pass up on. 

Tony shakes his head abruptly, refocusing his train of thought on the miserable, feverish kid sat next to him. Kid can’t ever catch a break, apparently, because he’d just bounced back from a pretty nasty gash on his arm the other week. And before that, there had been a week of particularly exhausting patrols that left him dead on his feet. 

Poor kid. 

Tony tucks the blanket a little tighter around the kid, apparently jolting him into semi-awareness. 

“Mis’ser Stark?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“I’m sleeping.” Peter grumbles, wriggling further into the plush sofa. Tony looks at his face, noting the still-ghostly pale skin and flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and sighs. In the near-silence of the room he hums a few notes from a song stuck in his head; one that Peter hoarsely adds a few tones to before stopping with a cough. 

Tony laughs, quiet as to not disturb the kid’s sensitive hearing. 

“Sleeping? Yeah. You sure are, kiddo.” 

Peter sniffles loudly before turning quiet, apparently dozing again. 

The plan is to wait for Helen to arrive. She’d been out of the country for a week on an extended trip to some medical conference — or was it an expo of sorts…? — in Europe, and is due back late today or early tomorrow. Which is fortunate, because Peter looks like death warmed over. 

He still remembers the specifics of the brief video call he shared with her that morning… 

————

_ “Sick again? He’s not overworking himself, is he?” _

_ “He’s had a rough couple of weeks. Do you know when you’ll be back at the compound next? I’m pretty sure I can handle this, but…”  _

_ “Tony. It’s alright. I’ll be back either today or tomorrow. It’s been pretty stormy over here, they’re not sure if any flights will be delayed or cancelled yet. I’ll keep you posted, though.”  _

_ “Thanks, Helen. It means a lot.” _

_ “Hey, Tony. It’s alright. It’s hard to not like the kid, he’s adorable. And it’s not like you guys can take care of yourselves when you’re healthy.”  _

_ “I resent that statement.” _

_ “Because I’m right.” _

_ “Yeah, yeah…” _

_ “I’ll see you both soon, then. Tell Peter to hang in there.” _

_ “Will do.” _

————

… but it doesn’t decrease his anxiety regarding the kid’s shabby state at all. Hell, Peter spent the first five or ten minutes after Tony dragged him from his room asking, over and over, what was happening and who set him on fire. 

It’s a good thing he’s freakishly light from that spider bite, because Tony can hardly haul the kid around as it is. If he were the weight of a normal teenager he probably would have met the floor face first more than once. 

Peter coughs hoarsely. Tony rubs his back. 

“You think you can keep food down yet?”

“Uh-uh.” Peter mumbles. He’s sweating again, Tony notes. Despite having buried himself under maybe twelve blankets and still shivering ten minutes ago, now he’s sweating. 

“FRI, lower the ambient temperature here by a coupl’a degrees, wouldja? The kid’s melting.” He says. Peter grunts and coughs again. 

_ ‘On it, Boss. Would you like me to inform Helen Cho about this development?’ _

“Nah, I think we got a handle on it, don’t we, bud?”

“Yuh.” Peter slurs into his fort. There’s some other mumble that follows it, something that might translate to ‘I’m fine’, but Tony can’t make real sense of it. Instead, he gives Peter’s curls a gentle ruffle, wincing slightly at the matted state of them, and turns on the TV. He keeps it quiet, because by this point he’s had enough (unfortunate) experience with the kid’s too-delicate sense of hearing to risk sending him into an overload right now. 

Poor kid’s already had a shit enough time these past few weeks, he will not make it any worse. May had attested to Peter’s recent exhaustion; it had been pretty much written in fate or some similar crap that his kid would burn himself out some time soon.

Tony just wishes the kid gets past this quickly. 

“I feel gross, Mr. Stark.  _ Real  _ gross.” Peter groans, one arm flopping out of his blanket fort to touch one of the sofa pillows. When he lifts his hand the pillow goes up with it. The kid snorts, before dropping the pillow back down with a sneeze. He looks like a kicked puppy. 

“That… doesn’t surprise me, Pete. You’re pretty sick right now.”

“Guh. Stupid… viruses…” 

“I’m right there with you, kid. Did I ever tell you about the time when I was at MIT, and I got the flu? Rhodey had to take care of me, and I made him work for it.” Tony watches, a warm feeling rising in his chest, as Peter’s perks up with a visible expression of interest on his face and in his eyes.

The way the flu makes this kid so openly trusting and vulnerable is both heartwarming and crushing, because Peter has seen so much darkness and pain in the world that he’s rarely ever  _ this _ childish otherwise. 

“Haven’t heard this one b’fore, Mis’ser Stark. Tell me.” Peter says, and the last part drags out into a childish whine. Tony snorts, tugs the blankets up over the kid again, and stretches his arms toward the ceiling.

“Well. Pretty sure it was some kind of exam season, I don’t fully remember, but I was fine one day, and on the floor the next. Pretty sure I fell over like, four times in three minutes. Rhodey had to scrape me off the floor so I wouldn’t try to drag myself to classes by force.”

Peter giggles. “Funny.”

Tony keeps speaking, making sure to keep the story as interesting as possible with just his tone and vague hand gestures to punctuate. He manages to pry a few more sleepy laughs out of Peter before he falls back asleep, feverish and tired-looking all at once. 

The kid looks so painfully young. It really, really makes Tony want to plant himself between him and the world to stop him from getting hurt even more than he already has.

But Peter wouldn’t take that, because he’s a ridiculously good little hero, and he’s ten times better than Tony knows he could ever be. He’s just gotta help him along the way, gotta give him someplace to fall back on. 

Tony slings his arm over Peter’s shoulder and pulls him close, allowing himself to doze off slowly. 

————

When Tony wakes up, it’s much darker out. He’s unsure as to how long he had spent sleeping, but it’s definitely been more than five hours. Unsurprisingly, the kid hasn’t moved all that much either — he’s snoring lightly.

It looks like his fever has broken. His curls are matted down by sweat, yeah, but there’s no fresh sweat on him. That’s good, that’s… that’s good. Slowly, Tony extracts himself from beside Peter, groaning quietly as several of his joints crack. The kid coughs quietly, frowning, before he slumps down and curls in on himself slightly.

“FRIDAY? What time is it right now?”

_ ‘It is 21:56 right now, boss. Helen left a message for you, stating that she has gotten onto her flight, and is en-route back now.’ _

“Cool. Has… has the kid’s room been cleaned up yet?”

_ ‘Housekeeping cleared up the room approximately two hours ago. It’s clean to put him back in now.’ _

“Thanks, FRI.” Tony murmurs. He crouches down, and scoops Peter up into his arms. It’s awkward — the kid’s definitely grown since Germany, because he is much harder to carry around now — and he’s honestly surprised that Peter doesn’t wake up during the process, but, thanking small blessings, the kid stays dead asleep. Hell, he even  _ snores. _

“You’re making a slave of me, Mr. Parker.” Tony mutters. Peter snores slightly louder. 

It’s a short walk from the common room to the living quarters, but it feels like an eternity with a clingy spider-baby adhered to his side. 

_ “Wha’ss’appnin’?” _ Peter slurs as soon as Tony manages to deposit him back into his room, slightly chilled now — the windows have been opened to let some fresh air in — and without the humidity that he inherently associates with sickness. Peter shudders. Tony pulls his comforter over him, and (totally unconsciously, mind you) tucks him in. Peter’s eyes widen, and Tony knows he isn’t imagining the way they turn glassy. 

“Thanks.” Peter whispers, nuzzling into his pillow. Tony huffs, and smiles. 

“Not a problem, spiderbaby.”

“I’m alright,” Peter whispers, mostly to himself, “‘cause you’re here to save me, right? Mis’er Stark.”

Tony blinks, throat tight. Sure, he already knew he’d fight higher powers and move heaven and earth for this kid, but when the kid basically asks him if he would…?

“Yeah, kiddo, I’m here to save you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you all tomorrow


	4. Human Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like these have been somewhat bland recently. I’m working on it.

The chattering of people all around him, despite it being a semi-regular occurrence that he is 100% used to, is still irritating after the first hour. 

Tony knows the importance of galas. He knows how important it is to establish and reestablish roots for potential investors in Stark Industries, but also, at the same time, hearing people tripping over themselves to kiss up to him really begins to grate after a while. 

The kid, however, seems to lack this sentiment. Dressed in a suit that just makes him seem even younger than ever, hair only tamed by gel nearly as strong as cement, Peter bounces from foot to foot in his excitement, looking around all the time. He looks like a five years old at a candy store. 

Tony doesn’t bother to suppress his little smile. The press’ll eat that up. 

On the surface, this entire gala event is just another way for Stark Industries to reach out and begin sponsoring projects. Pretty much the norm for any large company. 

In actuality, it’s a nifty way to introduce the idea of Peter Parker, Tony Stark’s personal intern and lab assistant, to the world. It sets the kid up well for the future; the number of paths it will open up for him are innumerable. Not to mention it’ll put a few of the kid’s bullies — yeah, he knows about them — back into their place. 

But even though he personally hates the type of people who are sidling up to him because of his fame or money, he can’t help but let a small smile lift his features. 

The kid’s happy; he is too. 

The evening passes without a hitch. 

Peter makes eye contact with him from across the room abruptly, expression slightly twisted in worry. From where Tony stands, he can see the kid’s hand coming up to his neck, shielding his nape. 

His muscles all tense with a single surge of adrenaline. Peter’s hand shields his nape; the exact place that gets itchy whenever that sixth sense of his goes off. 

Tony understands the message in an instant, bitter annoyance flooding his veins as his voice and another across the room shout out in unison, 

_ “Everybody get down!” _

In the same instant that many of the patrons of this place drop to the floor, screaming, Tony hears and sees two important things:

  1. He hears glass shattering and what sounds like a distant gun firing; something he dispatches FRIDAY and her patrolling suit to tackle while they secure the building. Since Afghanistan, he hasn’t attended many, if any at all, events without a security detail in the form of an Iron Man suit. 

  1. The one figure, aside from him and Peter, who remains upright after the joint declaration of panic has something silver and wickedly sharp looking in his hand. 

The knife is pressed against Peter’s throat. Tony tenses. Peter, bless him, just looks bored, a poor attempt to smother the slight tinge of panic on his face. 

Tony hates to admit it, but the number of times he’s been stabbed as Spider-Man are probably what’s keeping the kid’s calm right about now. The knowledge that he has a healing factor, and the knowledge that as soon as he’s injured, this bastard signs his death warrant. He takes a slow, deep breath, ignoring the hushed murmurs and cries around the room. The knife-guy’s gun-friend is nowhere to be seen, and other than that, there don’t seem to be any other attackers. 

Decent odds, really. 

“Let him go,” Tony calmly begins, “I’ve already contacted the authorities, and the place is surrounded. I guarantee right now, if you harm a  _ hair _ on that kid’s head, you won’t see the light of day again.” He takes a step forward slowly, hands raised. 

“Don’t come any closer, Stark!” The guy laughs. There’s a glint in his eyes that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. It’s clear as day to see that this guy has no qualms with killing a kid. Tony freezes as he sees Peter lock up, gaze at the ceiling, a small drop of blood beading just slightly at the blade of the crisp knife. 

The entire world falls silent; so deadly quiet that Tony could probably hear a pin drop on the other side of the planet. As it is, the quiet sobs of a few people in the crowd, the rush of air from the shattered window, and the way Peter’s hands clench and unclench rhythmically is all he has to work with. 

Peter stares at him. Tony looks desperately back. He doesn’t have many choices here. 

“What is it that you want?” He asks, tone weary. He doesn’t dare to move forward — the fact that the tip of this guy’s knife is pressed directly above the kid’s carotid artery means he knows what he’s doing, too. He’s been trained to kill. 

“What do I want? What I want, Stark, you can’t give me back.”

Outwardly, Tony doesn’t flinch. 

Inwardly, he curses. A trained man with his kid as a hostage. A trained man with a grudge against him and no problem spilling the blood of an innocent kid in a place with dozens of witnesses, in a place where his face would go viral instantly. 

_ ‘Boss, reinforcements have entered the building. A lone gunman has been apprehended from a nearby rooftop.’ _ FRIDAY tells him, voice calm as ever. 

Wait. 

It’s faint, but he hears Peter’s quiet little gasp as armed police storm into the room, weapons all pointed at the attacker. 

It’s at this point that Tony wants to beg Peter to use his powers to save himself. 

Because the guy tugs Peter’s body in front of his own; a human shield if any of the police attempt to fire. 

The room falls to a standstill. Past the high-pitched ringing in his ears Tony can see an attempted negotiation failing. He can see the bastard laughing, cruel knife biting slightly further into the kid’s pale neck.

Peter’s fist unclenches so suddenly that it catches Tony’s eye. He looks up to the kid. 

There’s a desperate look in his eye, but it isn’t one of fear. 

_ Trust me.  _

He doesn’t want to let the kid do whatever crazy, reckless thing he’s undoubtedly about to do. He really doesn’t want the kid to risk himself. But what other choice does he have? Shakily, Tony nods. 

The bastard yells something — he must have seen the nod — and even from a distance Tony can see the way his muscles tense, preparing to slide that wickedly sharp blade through the kid’s windpipe and sever his carotid artery. Ice floods his entire being in that second, and he becomes convinced that he’s about to watch Peter Parker die in an event where he should have been safe, in an attempt to level a grudge. 

The fucker never gets the chance to move his hand. 

Quicker than Tony can fully comprehend, Peter’s knee comes up and he stomps down harshly on the bastard’s foot, snaking his hand under the one that holds the knife to his throat and shoving it away from. A cracking sound rings out, followed by a pissed-off sounding grunt and a curse as the attacker involuntarily hunches over. . 

Peter doesn’t stop at that — the kid slams his elbow into that bastard’s gut while he’s distracted by his probably-broken foot, and hops a reasonable distance away. 

For a second, Tony can breathe again. The kid’s out of danger; the authorities are there to apprehend this bastard before Tony can don his suit and punch his lights out. 

But when is it ever that easy? 

Peter is darting towards him when Tony sees it; the guy’s arm poised with the blade of the knife between his fingers, aimed at the kid and prepared to throw. 

Tony wrenches the kid into a protective embrace and turns his back to where the knife should be coming at the same time that a gunshot rings out, and a male scream follows. 

Tony blinks. Peter’s eyes are teary, his chest is heaving with a delayed-panic attack. 

Neither of them are dead. There’s no pain in his back from a knife wound. 

He doesn’t need to turn to know what just happened to the fucker who held his kid hostage. He can hear him groaning in pain from over here. 

Tony keeps his grip on Peter, his hand petting those rogue curls down absently. 

“We’re alright, kiddo. We’re alright.”


	5. Gunpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m sleepy today. i’m going to take a nap later

Regrettably, staring down the barrel of a gun has become something of a bland experience, after a while. He doesn’t even blink at the cocking of the gun. 

Instead, he tries to not sound too bored when he asks, “Is that all?” 

Because really, Tony Stark, even back before everything, even way back when he was just  _ Howard Stark’s kid, _ has always been at a pretty high risk of becoming a bargaining chip in some half thought through ransom deal. It stopped being that frightening after Afghanistan and his Iron Man suits came around, and they happened much less… 

...but that isn’t to say it never happens. Like right now. He knows the guy won’t shoot — because Tony Stark is worth much more alive — weapons, money, Iron Man — than dead. 

So yeah, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. His heart has only barely picked up the pace from its normal beat. 

Across the dark, empty street, he can hear shouting. One of those voices, the angriest and most frustrated one, is Rhodey’s. A few more that are unrecognisable shout back some choice curses that would make even Nick Fury blush. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, Tony sniggers at the long chain of swears and normal words blended together. 

The breeze is chilled and particularly uncomfortable that night, especially given that it’s raining. that wouldn’t normally be a problem, but… after having fallen from the sky a few times, and some spectacular close-combat brawls, most of his original helmet has been scattered to the wind, only some of the barest framework shielding his throat and winding up over his right ear, so FRIDAY could still talk to him. 

A raindrop trickles from his forehead down his nose, landing uncomfortably at his nostrils. He pulls a face. 

His suit is too low on nanotech to shield his face with a new helmet before that gun can put a bullet into his skull, he recognises dumbly. 

He knows he’s worth too much to kill right now, but with a gun at his head he doesn’t dare to turn at the voice and heavy impacts of a new arrival. He’s not  _ suicidal.  _

“Mr. Stark!” Peter yells, voice bleary and only half-awake. Mixed in with his tone, dripping with sleepiness, is genuine alarm and terror.

And with that, he snaps back to semi-awareness. The metal of the gun’s barrel is cold against his rain-dampened forehead, pressed fully against his skull. How did this guy get so close to him again? What an opportunistic bastard. He’s gotta be enhanced somehow; he can’t remember anybody slipping into his guard in the last few minutes. 

_ “Mr. Stark!!” _ The kid yells again. His voice is much closer. 

The gun shifts from his forehead to where he can only assume is the direction Peter is swinging in from. Tony’s heart slams into overdrive, stomach crawling into his throat as he hears that absolute son of a bitch grumble about the kid not keeping still. His hands are sweating. His body shakes. 

“Kid,  _ no! _ Get away!” He calls, not turning his head still — he’s still too close to avoid a direct hit, even if his armour is slowly, stealthily creeping back over his head. 

He’s really, really bored of being held at gunpoint. 

But he’s absolutely terrified of that same weapon being aimed at his kid instead. 

There’s a guttural cry to mingle with the single gunshot. Tony’s heart sinks into his gut. 

A web snags the gun and rips it forcibly from their attacker’s grip, and not a half second later, a red-blue blur slams into the guy and sends them both sprawling across the pavement. 

Normally, he’d thank the kid for the save, but… 

Peter is always so careful to regulate his strength, careful to not break the people more fragile than him. 

But in that impact, Tony  _ heard _ several bones cracking. 

And they wouldn’t have been Peter’s. 

He scrambles to his feet, mouth slightly open in a mixture of concern and his desperation to suck in a breath — he heard a gunshot, Aimee at Peter. The gun rests at dip of the sidewalk, miserable grays blending into each other, but Tony ignores it. 

He’s barely fast enough to grab Peter’s wrist and force him into a restraining grip before he can lash out again. Rapid clunking and Rhodey’s exasperated voice tells him that he doesn’t need to worry about  _ ‘hold Tony Stark at gunpoint bastard number two hundred and twenty six’ _ anymore. 

Instead he’ll worry about Peter. 

The kid’s crying in his arms. Whatever words he’s trying to get out suffocate in his hyperventilating lungs, right as his knees give out and they fall down to the ground. 

_ “Not again…” _ he hears Peter choke out with a sob, before the realisation kicks him in the skull. 

His uncle, Ben. Watching someone held at gunpoint. Watching someone die. 

He’d looked at Tony and only seen a repeat of the past. 

Tony shuffles closer and brings Peter into a hug, ignoring the traitorous bastard tears in his own eyes and his throat, clenched tight. 

“Hey, hey, hey, kid, it’s… I’m okay, see? We’re alright.” He soothingly murmurs. Peter doesn’t stop shaking. 

_ “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry.” _

He can open his mouth wordlessly and frown and let Peter cry harder until once again, he realises too late: the kid’s not apologising for not being there faster. 

He’s apologising for not saving him at all. 

“It’s alright, kid. Let it out.” Is all he can say to that. When he looks up, Rhodey gives him an upset look that matches his own, and a single solemn nod as he takes that fucker who started all this away. 

_ “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” _

“I know you are.”


	6. Dragged Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched Fullmetal Alchemist recently. I think Ed Elric’s ‘fight god’ vibe rubbed off on me. I can’t bring myself to mind it much

The world is eerily silent. 

He can’t breathe. 

The overwhelming, nostril-clogging stench of dust and decay pervades his senses in their entirety; his heart screams and the world screams back in death and stillness and unbearable, horrible gray. 

When did this all happen? He’s a little bit overwhelmed. Where to start? The memories are all jigsaw pieces floating around in the riverbed of his head, and he can’t even begin to put them all back together without confusing himself more. 

The world is abstract and has faded to little more than a black and white film reel with no projector. 

A hand on his shoulder. 

That’s what snaps him out of his reverie, that hand, and the unstoppable tears dripping straight from a waterfall, no, a tidal wave of emotions in his mind that right now, he would like to drown under. 

Please. 

Please. 

Please. 

There’s no use in begging to an indifferent god. 

Please. 

Please. 

Please. 

Please, just let me… 

Please, just do not let this be… 

There’s no reason to ask for a favour that cannot be repaid, not now, not ever. 

A human soul is worth so much more that just meaningless platitudes and wishes for a better, more merciful universe to live in. Prayers for the restoration of a person can never be fulfilled; struggling against that unchanging constant leads nowhere, yet he fights that certainty anyway. 

The body before him never makes eye contact, not even once. It doesn’t even breathe to greet him or to laugh at some stupid joke. How cruel. 

Before this macabre standstill of time and breath, life was a happier, shining thing that he wishes to return to more than anything. He’d give anything to bring him back. His senses, his limbs, his life and blood and organs and very soul, he’d sacrifice them all in less than a heartbeat to bring back their mirrors in the body before him. 

The world was a happier, warmer place back then, back in that time where the worst that could happen was embarrassment in public or a minor wound. Back in that time. 

Time is a flow of unstoppable tears running straight from a waterfall, no, a tidal wave of memories. 

He drowns under the pull of it, under the shifting pressure of that water, but he never suffocates, never dies. 

The disembodied wall of imposing figures all whisper to him. 

“Breathe.” 

“Breathe.”

“Breathe.”

But why should he when the body of the adult does not? Adults should set examples to children, leading by doing and little more; if that adult has stopped breathing, he will too. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No…”

“Oh, God.”

There’s no use in invoking the name of the restless and resting; nothing will come as a result. The one-way river of life will not turn around with enough begging, it’s indifferent and cold and cruel. 

And worst of all, it won’t collect the people writhing in its depths for a long eternity unless they meet it halfway. 

Isolated and cold, with little more significance than an ant to a god, he’s pulled away from the body in front of him. 

“Tony, I’m sorry,” he begs for the body to hear him. 

_ “I’m sorry.” _


	7. Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this during a depressive episode a while ago. I figured I would use it here.

These days, it feels like all he can ever do is lie down in a ball and cry. 

He won’t try and fool himself and say it has nothing to do with the recent, upset weather, or the time of year that it is. It’s always raining now; the past few days have been miserable downpours. With the unsteady, unstopping rush of water outside comes the gray, sludge-like depressive state he’s never able to stop himself from sinking into. The heater in his suit is broken too; he can’t try and chase away this oppressive exhaustion by patrolling until his mind is swathed in cotton and the memories of his mistakes are buried. 

There’s all this molten sadness draping itself over him, and not a single thing to take his mind off it. May tries her best to bring him out of it, bless her, but… 

When Peter looks at May, all he can see is her grief-stricken expression on that terrible, terrible night; the way the tears running down her face seemed like they’d never cease and some of the warmth in her eyes was smothered out. Thinking about it just makes the icy needles bury themselves deeper into his heart, and wrench even more tears out of his core. Swathed in blankets that do nothing to keep him warm, Peter barely has the strength to pick up a glass of water, let alone stand up to patrol. Maybe it’s for the best that he has so little energy. 

Even when he’s too weak and pathetic to move, May still has to go to work. Ned is on a holiday with his family. MJ is away on some environmental protest in DC. 

All in all, the isolation he’s stuck with does not bode well for his mental state. In a cold, dark room, no light or sound from the TV or the outside world, Peter spends most of his time sleeping. He’s well aware that he needs to eat, that he needs to drink and bathe and clean himself up to start making himself feel better, but the lack of energy he has in the first place effectively ruins any chances of being pulled out of his funk. 

Two years ago, Ben died. In a dark by-street as the rain poured down all around them, in a world somehow completely silent despite the noise around them, Peter watched Ben bleed to death slowly, painfully, and did nothing about it.

That’s the root of this inescapable loneliness.

Really, it’s his fault.

He deserves it.

That’s why he never tells May what’s wrong with him when she asks, that’s why he plays it off with a claim of mere exhaustion or sickness. That’s why he doesn’t tell Ned about the darker aspects of superhero life whenever he asks; because he won’t bring that unending ache upon someone else too. It’s why he didn’t tell MJ the real reason he had been so bummed out on the lead up to the anniversary.

Alone, exhausted and small, Peter knows it’s what he deserves for failing to act fast enough to save Ben. 

He wishes that it would stop. More than anything, he wants the ache in his heart to fade away forever; just wants to sleep one night without Ben’s lifeless eyes watching his every move. 

He’s smart enough to know that it never really will. 

Isolated and alone, Peter curls up a little bit tighter and slips into another restless dream. 


	8. Stab wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first one that feels like a proper whumptober fic. a tiny part of my energy for writing from last year came back from the void for this one. guess i can still write after all.

Peter chokes on the shaking, wet breath stuck in his throat. He realised not-too long ago that attempting to control his ragged, jerky breaths would be for naught. 

His hands are covered in deep, deep red, and between his fingers, he can see off-coloured chunks; flashes of bloody pinks and crimson-saturated purple hues that make his stomach crawl up into his mouth. The warm blood is sticky and clotting between his fingers, clumps forming, the wound pulsing under his sensitive fingers. 

“Oh, god,” he gags, swallowing back a bitter wave of bile, “oh my god.”

Beneath his fingers, interlocked and pushing down, Mr. Stark doesn’t move. Or speak. His eyes are dazed and blown wide. The only way Peter can even tell that he’s still alive is from his struggling, wet breaths. And unlike Peter, his breaths aren’t damp because he’s crying. 

There’s not much he can work with. The glass shard that had lodged itself into Mr. Stark’s stomach came loose after he fell down and it wasn’t plugging the wound at all after that; Peter had to crawl over the rubble and take it out with shaking hands. After he’d tossed it aside with much more force than strictly necessary, he vaguely remembers throwing up. The acrid, burning scent of vomit haunts his nose, right alongside the lingering stench of damp iron in the air.

What happened, again? Why is this happening? Why is this happening again? How many times is he going to have to shove his hands over a gaping, throbbing wound and beg to some deity that he doesn’t even believe in to not take another one away from him? How many times is this going to happen? 

How many times will he have to watch a loved one die? 

Peter sputters and chokes on yet another sob, pushing down just a little harder on the wound. His sweater is drenched through now, gray long since replaced with tainted red; it’s in the lines of his palms and under his nails and he can  _ feel _ it clinging to his sensitive palms in a way that makes him want to retch all over again- 

Holding back yet another heaving sob, Peter loathes his helplessness. No medical supplies, no expertise in the field to smooth out the process with. Peter’s quaking hands are Mr. Stark’s lifeline now, the narrow tightrope that decide between life or death. And goddamnit, he knows that he’s not doing enough. All these powers, all his abilities and strength, and… 

And when it comes down to it, he can’t even save one man. 

What a horrific fucking tragedy. 

His breaths ragged and uneven, he has to wonder if this is how Mr. Stark feels every time he winds up injured — which is far too often for either of them to be comfortable with it anymore. 

He’ll have to stop doing that. Getting injured, that is, he’ll try his best to keep himself safe because- his heartbeat pounds in his temples, the rushing blood — not just his — the only sound in his ears. Peter is young, and this is the first time it’s been Mr. Stark on the receiving end of such a harrowing injury, and his heart already feels like it’s going to give out at any given moment. His head is fuzzy and light, his lungs are burning, his arms are on fire from the lactic acidosis buildup, and the sweat trickling down his face is so unnecessarily distracting. 

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. 

“I can’t breathe.” 

Nobody responds. Mr. Stark’s expression is pained, and it’s horrible that it has come to a point where that’s a good thing — if he can still feel pain, he’s still alive, even if the image of blood trickling from his nose and mouth will haunt Peter until his dying days, right alongside Ben’s vacant eyes as his hand slipped to the Earth. 

Peter subsists entirely on the knowledge that, with every five second check for breathing, Mr. Stark is still alive for now. 

“I’m sorry. Don’t want to hurt you. Just hang on. Please. Hang on. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Becomes his mantra. 

His throat hurts. His ears are ringing. His head is spinning. Everything aches. 

Peter ignores the chorus of pain from his own body in favour of trying, he’s trying, it’s not working anymore, why won’t the blood  _ stop?! _

He doesn’t even know how long he spends in his panic-fuelled state; he knows that Mr. Stark is still breathing and bleeding; he doesn’t pay attention to his own minor injuries or the fact that at some point, his left arm went numb, he just- he just- 

Black dots swarm around the corners of his vision. The world wobbles on its axis, and he stumbles, hands momentarily coming loose from the wound. 

“Shit. Shit!” 

He pushes down harder, and a small, pained grunt escapes Mr. Stark’s too-blood-red lips. His teeth are stained with it. Tears stream down Peter’s cheeks. 

“Shit. Fuck.” 

The world rings louder, consuming and stuffing his entire brain with it, and he wavers dangerously. 

He grits his teeth, wobbling again, and keeps focusing. His entire world narrows down to his bloody hands and the wound beneath them. 

So when a hand drops on his shoulders and the hazy silhouette of a man appears in his vision, Peter knows that it’s safe, and slumps over, immediately unconscious. 

———— 

When he comes back to consciousness, it’s with distinct annoyance toward the beeping of a vital sign monitor. 

Then comes the confusion. A hospital, from the sharp disinfectant smell and crisp air. Why is  _ he _ in hospital? It was Mr. Stark who was- 

Peter bolts upright, tugging on numerous IV lines and causing some machine to bleep at him. He stares at it, eyes adjusting to the dim lights, utterly dumbfounded. 

His left arm gives a screech of pain that sends him back to his bed, clutching at his shoulder. Distantly, he can hear himself gasping, and can just barely see splotches of red appearing through thick white, and then there are footsteps rushing toward him, hands pinning him to the bed while he bucks weakly against them. Peter can’t make sense of what they’re saying. Then finally, there’s a cold, sharp  _ prick _ in his arm and oblivion follows it. 

————

The next time he wakes up, his world is a little brighter and a lot clearer. 

Peter blinks. Licks around his mouth. Pulls a face. 

His mouth tastes crappy. 

Slowly, he raises his arms up, taking in the sluggish, tingly feel to them, and the swatches of bandaging around his left shoulder region. The dull throb there yells  _ ‘injury’.  _

He groans. 

“Ow.”

With a lot more care, and effort to balance his weight onto his right arm, Peter drags himself upright. His room is empty, and while the view of greenery and open space is pleasant, he would really  _ really _ like human interaction to figure out what the fuck happened to his arm. 

_ And to Mr. Stark, _ he realises with a slight jolt. 

“FR…” he tries, and coughs for his efforts. Clearly, the disuse of his voice needs rectifying. “FRIDAY?”

_ ‘Mr. Parker. You’re awake.’  _ Is it possible for an AI to sound surprised? Because if it is, FRIDAY sure can pull it off. 

“Mmhmm. What ha-” Before he can even finish his sentence, Peter is interrupted. 

_ ‘Helen Cho is en route.’ _

He blinks. “O-oh. Alright. Thank you.” 

The room falls quiet. Peter looks out the window, fingers of his right hand absently picking at the thin hospital blanket that covers him. Despite the time of year, the room is pretty warm — so he’s in  _ his _ hospital room at the compound, then. 

His left arm… Peter wracks his memories, but aside from blood and his hands over a wound, he can’t pick much of what happened out. Which means he was either concussed, or he was given a lot of ‘knock-out-a-herd-of-elephant’ drugs. It tingles, though. His fingers twitch abruptly every now and then. 

“Peter?” A soft, female voice comes. Helen. Right. 

“Uh- come in?” 

“It’s good to see you up.” Helen says, a smile in her voice, as she steps into the room. The weary lines in her expression and slight eye bags make her look exhausted. She probably is. 

“I… it’s good to… be awake? I guess. What happened?” 

Helen pulls a face that lets him know that, yeah, this one was a close one.

“You don’t need to worry about that right now. First, let’s just get a look at your arm, alright?” Peter sits carefully still as Helen walks over, setting down a cup of coffee, and washes her hands before putting on some gloves. With his right hand, Peter works the hospital gown down just enough to expose his left shoulder

“Sure?” Peter mumbles. Helen gives him a small, tired smile, and gets to work on undoing the bandages on his arm. There’s a lot of them — even with her expertise and dexterous fingers, it takes a minute or two to fully unwind them. 

While Helen nods and looks happy with his recovery, Peter gapes, and takes in the sight. 

The massive, almost flower-like patch of scar tissue spanning from halfway across his collarbone and across his shoulder joint stares back at him. The place where normal flesh meets scar tissue is ragged, suggesting that something violently ripped through it, and the pinkish, shining tissue is unignorable. 

_ “What?” _

“It really wasn’t fun to contend with. With your blood loss, you’re lucky to be alive.” Helen says, like the  _ massive fucking scar _ on his arm is nothing to be alarmed about. Peter swallows harshly. 

“What happened to my arm?! I didn’t even- I didn’t feel anything…” 

“Because the shrapnel that hit your arm severed just about every major nerve and artery in that region. It took four separate sessions in the cradle  _ and _ several hours of emergency surgery to patch that damage up. Honestly… it was a surprise you held out so long without treatment first. Those first two cradle sessions were for your blood vessels, and those last two were to restore your nervous function. That’s a new record for most regen sessions per one injury.” 

Peter stays very, very quiet for a few minutes, just staring at the ridiculously huge patch of scar tissue blossoming across his shoulder. 

Oh, man, how is he  _ ever _ going to explain that to the kids in the school changing rooms. 

_ ‘I slipped?’ _

Not likely. 

Maybe he was quiet for too long, but Helen’s hand rests on his good shoulder, and she’s looking him in the eyes intently. 

“Peter. I know this must be horrible for you, but…” 

“This is gonna raise  _ so _ many questions at school that I  _ really _ don’t wanna answer.” He blurts. 

To his surprise, Helen laughs. 

“You’ll be fine, I’m sure of it. Tony would probably build you something to hide it if you asked.” Helen says, and there’s a knowing smile in her eyes. “Can you move your arm around for me? Slowly, now.” 

Peter nods, and lifts his arm slightly. The odd, pins-and-needles feeling — “That’s normal in nerve therapy, don’t worry about it,” — intensifies, but it doesn’t  _ really _ hurt. It aches a lot, but isn’t too painful that he wouldn’t risk moving. He frowns, resting his arm down — god, that scar is hideous — on the bed.

“Wait, what happened to Mr. Stark?! Is he alright?!”

“Tony?” Helen waves her hand vaguely, “Oh, he’s fine. Compared to you, he got off with a light scratch. He’s been worried sick about  _ you, _ though.”

Peter sputters. He vaguely remembers that wound being massive, and bleeding everywhere. 

_ “What. _ There- there was blood everywhere, he got stabbed by the- he wasn’t- speaking, he wasn’t speaking, he looked like he was…”  _ dead, _ is what he wants to say, but the words catch in his throat before they can come out. 

“That was a concussion. A little worse than your one, but just a concussion. And you did a great job staunching the bleeding from that glass; most of the blood you were seeing was your own.” Helen’s expression pinches again, even as she wraps light bandaging around his shoulder and chest region again, offering a sling to keep his shoulder as stationary as possible while the new tissues graft in. Peter takes it gratefully — the limb is already worn out from just a few motions. 

“So- can I see…?” He asks hopefully. Helen sighs lightly, but nods. 

“I’d prefer you stay here, but… technically you’re fully healed, just tender, so… as long as you’re not pushing yourself  _ too _ hard…” 

Peter stays perfectly still while Helen removes his IV line, and detaches the machines at his bedside — there are fewer than when he came around that first time — to allow him to stand. 

His legs are wobbly, and he’s cold dressed in only the thin hospital gown, pants and slippers, but he’s standing up. 

“You’re alright?” Helen asks him. Peter nods. 

“Yeah. So, uh…” he takes a few shaky steps around the room, “where  _ is _ Mr. Stark?”

“Where do you think?” Helen doesn’t sound overly happy. Peter wracks his brain, and only comes up with one answer. 

“Really? The lab? Already?” 

“The second he woke up he asked to go there. Well, after he asked to see you.”

Peter grimaces. The thought isn’t pleasant; Mr. Stark waking up after his wound had been patched up and finding out what happened to  _ him _ instead. Knowing him, he probably went to the lab because… because he felt guilty that, once again, Peter got more hurt than he did. 

“I’m gonna go down there.” Peter says, determination strengthening his resolve. Helen mumbles something like  _ “I knew it,” _ under her breath, but doesn’t attempt to stop him. 

“I’ll go with you,” At his look, Helen elaborates, “somebody needs to know how to keep that shoulder of yours intact.” 

Peter gives a sheepish, one-shoulder shrug. 

Cautiously, Peter steps out of his hospital room and into the hallway. It’s colder out here, he realises with a shiver. It doesn’t help that these damn hospital clothes are so thin — the chill is going straight through him. 

He ignores the discomfort in his body, and the aching throb in his shoulder, and presses forward. It’s almost funny, in a super morbid and horrible way, that he’s been in this hospital so many times that he knows how to get to the labs from here, but, hey, he does, he can’t change that, so he might as well laugh about it anyway. The place seems pretty empty — his gut is telling him that it’s pretty early still. 

“He didn’t pull an all-nighter, did he?” Peter asks. Helen’s look is deadpan. 

Mr. Stark has probably lost track of time in his lab. It will probably- no, definitely surprise him to see Peter up and moving around if that’s the case. 

As they continue to walk, it falls silent. Somehow, it grates against his ears — usually the noises about the place are way too much to cope with without some kind of sensory overload occurring, so it’s really weird that now the silence is what bothers him. Peter frowns, but keeps his pace. 

“So… how long am I off patrols for?” He broaches tentatively. 

“At least a month. You need to take it easy, Peter. I’d like you to rest for longer, but I know you won’t listen if you can move. The internal tissue damage has been fixed, but it’s still tender, and still needs time to integrate properly. If you move too hard, too soon… it won’t be pretty.” Peter frowns at the implied threat.

Helen takes the time to explain, in great detail,  _ just what would happen _ if he tore any of the new tissues. 

“I’ll take that month off, thanks.” Peter says, throat strained. They turn the last corner before the lab. 

The first thing Peter notices is the heavy stench of motor oil and coffee. That’s pretty much the norm for Mr. Stark’s lab, but today the coffee smell is overpowering. His right hand’s fingers come up to pinch his nostrils shut. 

“That’s…” 

“Yep.” 

They press forward. Oddly, the lab’s door is shut. A sigh escapes his lungs. 

“Hey, uh, FRIDAY?” 

The door opens. Barely, Peter can hear faint music coming from the back of the massive laboratory, but it’s hardly there at all. 

Mr. Stark sits at his workbench. 

Dead asleep, snoring loudly. 

“That’s going to really mess up his back,” Helen absently says. 

“FRI?” Peter asks with a nervous laugh, edging closer to his unconscious mentor. Even with a pole to his shoulder, he doesn’t stir. 

_ ‘Boss has been asleep for approximately four and a half hours, now. Feel free to move him.’ _

Peter pokes a little harder.

“Uh, Mr. Stark? Wakey wakey?  _ Helloo?” _

Mr. Stark groans, a oil-stained hand coming up to weakly slap away Peter’s. 

“Mr. Stark, that’s really bad for your back.” 

“I’m not old…” he grumbles. Peter snorts weakly. 

Really, the state he’s in is pitiful. The bags under his eyes are horrendous and his hair looks like it hasn’t seen a wash in days; the number of coffee mugs on his workbench is outright scary. 

“Yeah you are.” Peter says, giving a final poke. 

And this time, Mr. Stark’s eyes crack open. 

“Ugh. Go back to sleep, child.” 

Peter raises an eyebrow and waits for it to sink in. Behind him, Helen quietly counts down from five. 

“Wait,  _ Peter?!” _ Mr. Stark bolts upright, grabbing him by the shoulders and checking him over despite how he stumbles himself. His grip is loose on his injured shoulder. 

Peter weakly smiles, “In the regenerated flesh.”

And much to his surprise, he’s tucked into a hug. It’s a little awkward with his arm in a sling and Mr. Stark’s wobbling, but it’s nice nonetheless. 

Although he stinks. 

“You’re awake! And snarking! Helen, why didn’t you wake me up?” 

Helen raises her hands in surrender. “In my defense, he only woke up about an hour ago.” 

“Sweet-  _ fuck- _ kid, if you  _ ever _ pull that self-sacrificing- if you ever do that again I will  _ personally _ haunt you.” The hug tightness abruptly. Peter hums. 

“Alright, lemme see it.” Mr. Stark pulls away post-haste, peering at his sling-bound arm. Helen sighs, and it’s an aggravated sound. 

“Do you at least have bandages around here to replace them? Clean ones?” She asks. Mr. Stark nods and points her in the direction of a cupboard; one that Peter knows contains a bunch of first aid kids mostly from experience. 

“Hey, FRI, warm it up in here, wouldja? Spiderbaby’s slept enough recently, wouldn’t want him hibernating, too.” Mr. Stark says as he unwinds the bandaging around his shoulder. 

His hands are shaking. A heavy weight settles on Peter’s lungs. 

He hesitates for a second when he asks, “You know it isn’t your fault, right?” 

The bitterly amused exhaustion in Mr. Stark’s warm brown eyes practically screams,  _ ‘I don’t buy that for a second, but I’ll agree to make you feel better’. _

“And that’s how I know that it’s probably gonna be super messy under there. But I’ll keep that one in mind, Underoos.” 

The bandaging comes off. For a split second, Tony makes a feather-light brush of his thumb over the gnarled scar, before recoiling from it. 

And Peter watches Mr. Stark’s eyes fill with an unspeakable anguish. 

“Shit…” he murmurs. Peter flounders, mouth opening and closing aimlessly as he searches for something reassuring to say, but his words abandon him. His arms fall to his sides. 

“Uh…”

“I’m sorry, Peter.” It’s little more than an upset whisper. 

“What?”

“For not… because…” Clearly the exhaustion has gotten to his mentor too — he stops speaking to stare at the floor, deathly silent. 

“If you’d tried to protect me, I think it would have killed you. I prefer this turnout.” 

“Don’t say that. Just… don’t.” There’s an unspoken desperation in Tony’s voice that makes him pull up short, and remain quiet instead of protesting like he wants to. 

“Alright,” he mumbles as Helen pulls him aside to wrap clean bandaging around the wound again, briefly making a tender pass with an antiseptic wipe, “okay.”

Aside from Helen’s quiet footsteps, the room is silent. 

Then a blanket lands on top of Mr. Stark’s head. And then one hits him, too.

Helen stands with her arms crossed and a stern look in her eyes. 

“Peter’s off patrols for a month. And you two are resting. FRIDAY?”

_ ‘Miss Potts will be contacted if either of them attempt to use any lab equipment.’ _

Mr. Stark sputters so loudly that Peter laughs. 

“That’s- That’s just  _ cruel!” _

“Shut up and take care of your kid, Tony.” Helen says, and that’s final. With a turn on her heel, she leaves the room in a stunned silence. 

Almost hesitantly, Mr. Stark reaches to his workbench, and instantly FRIDAY speaks up with an ominous,  _ ‘Don’t.’ _

Suffice to say, Peter wouldn’t risk the same thing. Instead, he wraps himself up in his blanket with his good arm and creative applications of an adhesive superpower, and flops down on a couch. 

“You good?” Mr. Stark asks, concerned. 

“Yeah. Would have thought I wouldn’t be so tired after spending who knows how many days sleeping in a hospital, but…” He gives a one-armed shrug again. 

“Sedation ain’t the same as sleep, Pete. Go catch some Z’s.” 

“Only if you do too.” He says. 

Although his eyes narrow, Mr. Stark listens, and collapses onto the couch opposite. 

“Ouch.” 

_ Right, _ the stab wound. 

“You need to be careful. At least I get a healing factor.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Your superpower is healing, and mine is being old.” Mr. Stark grumbles. Peter snorts. 

“I never said that.”

“It was  _ heavily _ implied.” 

Peter shakes his head. “Nah.” 

“Stop sassing me, I’m old.” 

“You need a shower for sure, that’s what.” 

Mr. Stark glares at him, blanket tugged over his shoulders. 

“Tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Peter sleepily says, “tomorrow.”


	9. Shackled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like metaphors a lot, so this one just screamed at me to do it. Sorry it’s so short. I don’t have so much free time lately.

When Tony looks at Peter, he sees a lot of things. The insecurity and nervousness that he never really tries to hide. The little spring in his step that appears whenever someone talks science to him. The exhaustion draped over his shoulders like an old, worn blanket. 

But the one thing that is inescapably noticeable to Tony Stark, is that Peter Parker is a child who had to grow up far too quickly. 

He recognises it well, really; he was exactly the same. Chance a couple of circumstances and he and the kid become one in the same. 

He notices those shackles of responsibility around the kid’s ankles all the time. 

It’s easy to see when a child had sacrificed their time for being a kid in favour of helping others; it can be read from the tension carried in their shoulders, from the strained smiles they wear on most days. 

Peter always looks so tired. And worn out, not just in the physical sense. He can read it in the way Peter makes his decisions, how practicality and importance take priority over the stupid childish indulgences other people his age are enjoying. It makes his gut twist to see Peter skipping out on all the experiences a kid his age should be living and learning through. No, instead, he’s out in the dark rushing around and risking his life in the name of saving another’s. 

The burden of responsibility is a heavy one. Tony’s known this for a while now. But at least he got to live a little before those shackles got chained to his ankles. 

Peter’s just a kid with those same damned manacles. Embarrassment at school should be his main concern, not how quickly he’ll be able to attend school again after a near-fatal injury. 

So he tries his hardest to cushion the impacts of being tied down by such heavy responsibility. 

“You wanna get some pizzas?” The kid’s so frenetic and all over the place some days that he forgets to eat. And he  _ needs _ to eat. Peter will laugh, and he’ll rub at the back of his neck sheepishly, but he’ll say  _ yeah _ after a period of deliberation, and they’ll eat enough pizza to send them both comatose. 

“You need a break yet?” Tony isn’t in a position to judge; just yesterday he skipped out on sleeping entirely. But Peter’s a kid. He needs to rest, especially with all the injuries he racks up every day, every week. More often than not Peter shakes his head, and buckled down tenfold on whatever he’s doing, be it homework or lab work. But occasionally, on those bad days, when Peter says yes, Tony does all he can to make the kid feel just a little bit better. 

Because dammit, he knows how much the burden of responsibility ties an ache right down into a soul. 

And…

Put simply, Tony sees himself in that kid. Not just because they look reasonably similar in terms of hair and eye colour. Nope, because, if you tweaked a couple of circumstances here and there, they both could have wound up living each other’s lives. It’s only natural that he would want to protect this kid from falling into the same pit-traps that he fell into at that age. 

And, to be honest, somewhere along the line, Peter stopped being  _ the _ kid as such and started being  _ his _ kid. And for that, it’s only natural that Tony would want to protect him, right? It’s only natural that he wants to keep his kid safe. 

So, given that he is and knows he is definitely unable to make Peter voluntarily drop that weight of responsibility on his shoulders, he’ll do everything he can to share that burden. 

Because that’s what a father should do. 


	10. Unconscious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m trying a new writing style. please notice there is a lot more dialogue now than in my last whumptober fics. it’s pretty trying all things considered.

Tony blinks awake slowly to the dull vibration of his phone on his workshop table. His head is so foggy that is doesn’t register at first, it’s more of a ‘what’s happening’ sort of thing, but after maybe five minutes of the phone ringing, on and off as it dials out and then begins ringing again, it becomes clear that he should probably pick it up. 

Tony slams his hand around the table, groping blindly for his phone until he brings something roughly phone-sized to his ear. 

_ “Whoizzit?” _

“Mr. Stark!” Peter shrieks down the line. Tony winces as the kid starts rambling, “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, oh my god, thank god, oh my god, Mr. Stark- help!”

His blood turns cold as the kid keeps repeating the same things over and over, endlessly, and- is he crying?!

“Kid, kid. Peter. Peter! I need you to breathe, buddy, breathe with me.” He says, and he tries to make it as calming as he possibly can in his 3 A.M., sleep deprived and slightly over-exhausted state. He suspects that he’s failing at ‘calm’ though, because Peter’s panicking renews itself and he begins babbling down the line; it gets so bad at several points that he can’t make out a word of what he’s saying, only that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

“Peter! Tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. Speak to me, bud.” Tony shouts. DUM-E beeps distantly, sounding a little concerned as he dawdles over to Tony’s position. He wordlessly pets the bot while the kid composes himself.

“It’s- it’s- it’s… it’s May! I- I came home from patrol a little late, and, and, she won’t wake up! May won’t wake up, she’s on the floor- she’s unconscious and she’s breathing, so I think- but she won’t wake up, Tony, I can’t get May to wake up, I can’t-” Peter cuts off there, and Tony can distantly hear muttered pleas and too-rapid breaths. He curses and stands violently, tipping his chair backward, and breaks into a jog out of his lab. His body is still mostly asleep and he’s grateful that nobody is around to see him drunkenly stumbling around the compound this late… this early in the morning. He keeps jogging until he’s winded and out on the front of the compound.

“FRIDAY, I’m heading out to the Parkers’ place. Tell Pep where I’m headed and tell her it’s an emergency, she’ll understand.” Tony double-taps the nanoparticle storage unit on his chest, ups his pace from a jog to a sprint, and with a burst of lift from the repulsors of his suit, takes to the skies, Peter connected to his phone, then HUD the entire time.

“Hey, Peter, I need you to listen to me, alright. Listen to me and breathe. I’m on my way to you right now. But first, I want you to grab your web-shooters, okay? I want you to take them off of your suit, and I want you to put them on May instead.” Tony begins. The scenery is a blur beneath him, muted blacks and blues and grays merging into a mess he can’t care for right about now. Peter chokes out a little noise that sounds like ‘why?’, but Tony hears shuffling through the phone. He continues speaking.

“Your web-shooters usually sit on your wrists, don’t they? They measure your pulse and vitals, and feedback them to my suit when you’re patrolling in case anything goes wrong. I want you to put them on May’s wrists. They’ll help tell me what’s wrong with her, kiddo, alright? Can you do that?” It’s instinct that guides his voice into the low, soothing tones they’ve settled into. He’s too-aware of how quietly he’s speaking. 

“Y-yeah, I can- I can do that, I can do that, I can- please hurry up, Mr. Stark, please. Please.” Peter says, a little hiccup punctuating the end of his sentence. 

“I’ll be there in five minutes, Pete. I’ll be there soon. Just hang on.” Tony says. Peter mutters a quiet  _ ‘alright’, _ still hyperventilating slightly, before everything turns silent. It’s an overcast, dark night out, shadows swathing the city in impenetrable darkness. He frowns, and fails to not worry about May and the kid. He slows down as he enters Queens to make it less obvious that Iron Man is hanging about the place, because the last thing Peter needs right now is the stress of people asking him why Tony Stark just showed up to see him.

“Alright, FRIDAY, let’s make this subtle and stealthy. Can you get me into that back alley over there? Feel free to hop into the glasses.”

_ ‘On it.’ _ FRIDAY says, and as quietly as anyone in a metalloid-suit can, Tony drops down into a small alley opposite the apartment complex the kid lives in. The Mark 50 dissolves back into the nanotech storage unit, leaving behind only enough nanotech to form his glasses and keep FRIDAY with him. 

Now, outside of his thermally-regulated suit, in only a battered MIT hoodie that has seen better years and some equally-battered tracksuit pants, he feels the deep chill of the night. Tony is painfully aware of how shady he looks right about now, a hood-wearing dude appearing in an alley out of nowhere.

Peter’s voice, unprompted and still pretty loud, makes him jolt.

“O-okay, Mr. Stark, they’re on, I put them on, can you…?” 

“You got it, kid. FRIDAY, bring up the web-shooter’s vital readings.”

_ ‘Her pulse is within a healthy range… blood pressure looks slightly elevated… boss, it doesn’t look like there’s anything hugely wrong with her. She might be dehydrated.’ _ FRIDAY reports back to him. Tony frowns. It feels familiar, those symptoms. Mostly because he’s had them before. An idea begins to piece itself together in his head. Slowly, he makes his way towards the kid’s apartment complex. 

“Peter…” Tony begins. “Does she have any visible injuries?”

“Wh-what…? She- she isn’t bleeding, no, but… she won’t wake up, and- I just-” Peter trails off, sniffling. Tony winces as he remembers- the kid’s Uncle. It’s understandable that he freaked out, because he’s had nothing but shitty hands dealt to him before now.

“It’s okay, Peter. It’s alright. Do you know if May has been sleeping enough recently? Eating enough, drinking enough?”

“Mr. Stark, what are you… what do you mean?”

Tony sucks in a long, weary breath. “Looking at May’s vital signs… they’re healthy, for the most part. But… I think it’s exhaustion, kid,” And then he adds, “Overwork.”

“Overwork?” Peter repeats. He sounds so genuinely lost that it makes Tony want to bring the kid close and hug him tight. Instead he picks up his pace and enters the building, weaving his way through hallways. The door numbers are getting closer and closer to the one he’s looking for.

“Yeah. I’ve been there enough times to know when it’s bad. So, kid. Can you get May somewhere more comfortable? It’ll help when she comes back to.” Tony winces as, unbidden, a few memories of having passed out in uncomfortable positions had left him waking up with the worst muscular aches in his neck and shoulders float back to him.

“Oh… okay. Yeah. Y-yeah. I can do that. But, um, Mr. Stark, when will you…?”

Tony knocks at the door.

“I’m here, kid.”

Peter puts down the phone, and Tony hovers awkwardly outside the door for a few minutes before the door opens to reveal a red-cheeked, puffy-eyed, visibly ragged Peter Parker.

“Jeez, kid, you look like shit.” He jokes. Peter winces and shoots an annoyed look at him before running a hand through his mussed, curly hair. Tony sighs and holds his arms out, wide and open for a hug. Peter’s eyes widen before he moves in, allowing Tony to embrace him. It’s a nice moment; Tony can feel the kid shift around so he can hear his heartbeat more clearly. 

It ends too soon, with Peter pulling away and tension flooding back into his frame. 

“I- I put May in her room, for now, um, is that…?” The genuine vulnerability and trust the kid is showing to him floods his chest with warmth, yet it aches at the same time. Probably just the emotions. 

“That’s alright, kid.” He says, and follows behind Peter as they walk toward the room May is in. It doesn’t escape his notice that the kid’s hands are shaking the entire time, a little nervous mannerism that he’s trying to hide, but failing to. 

Tony rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder. 

“She’ll be alright, Peter.” Tony softly says. Peter gives a jerky nod in response as they enter the dim room. The only light that comes in is from the streets outside, but Tony can see May’s silhouette on a bed. 

“Could you turn on the lights, kid?” He asks. Peter does so, and the first thing Tony notices about May when they come on is, fuck, those are some  _ serious _ eye bags. It looks as if she hasn’t slept in weeks — a feeling Tony himself is all-too familiar with. 

“It’s definitely overwork.” He confirms immediately. Peter shutters slightly. 

“What can we do to help her?” The kid asks, voice wobbling, as he rubs at his hand. Tony thinks to himself briefly before asking the kid to get May covered by her comforter. Naturally he does so, and Tony gives a thumbs up in response. 

“Let’s take care of her together for now, okay?” Then, he adds, “How are you at cooking?”

“Um… I can cook a little bit… but I tend to mess it up.” Peter says, cheeks reddening. Tony chuckles quietly. 

“Me too, kid. I think if we work together we might turn out something edible. Hopefully.” 

That startles a small laugh out of Peter, and the smile that bursts onto Tony’s face is nothing less than 100% genuine. 

“I’ll stay here with you until she wakes up, buddy. Now let’s get to work on burning some food.” 

“Okay.”


	11. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s dialogue centric

“I’m getting real tired of this, Pete.” Tony sighs. 

Peter nods, completely serious when he says,  _ “I know, Mr. Stark.”, _ like Tony isn’t about to have a stress-induced heart attack. 

“Then why’d you keep doing it?” He asks, exasperated, and yawns abruptly. 

“Uh…” Peter shrugs, “to spice up your week.”

Tony shakes his head. “Try again, less sass.”

“I have a compulsion to jump in front of any knife that comes in my direction.” 

Tony levels a death glare at Peter, who smiles sheepishly back at him. 

“Strike two.”

Peter sighs. Chews thoughtfully on his words. 

“My spleen was itchy?” 

Tony launches the most deadpan glare he’s capable of at the kid and nearly hears the impact of it. Peter mumbles out a hasty apology. 

“Strike three; you’re out.”

“Hey, I had a bad case of itchy internal organs,” Peter coughs, groaning, “you’re just being rude.”

Tony harshly jerks a thumb at the bloodied knife on the small medical trolley next to him. 

“And you’re giving me a bad case of premature death, so stop it.”

“Who’s being dramatic now?” The kid smugly asks. 

Tony narrows his eyes at Peter before rubbing harder that strictly necessary with antiseptic wipes. Peter curses aloud. 

“Drama? Me? You’re the teenager here.”

“Yeah, yeah… could you be a bit lighter with the wipes please?” Peter hisses quietly when Tony makes another pass with the wipes, removing the fresh beading blood droplets from the open wound. 

“Unless you want to come back with that wound gangrenous so Helen can scrape it out with a spoon, no. Suck it up. Don’t jump in front of knives.” Tony huffs. It doesn’t escape his notice that the kid paled slightly after his perhaps…  _ slightly _ gory way of saying why wounds need cleaning. 

“I take it back, feel free to dig a little deeper.” 

“No thanks, kid, I’ve had enough of having to put you back together every other day. You ready for the stitches?”

“No, but when am I ever, right?”

“Feel free to go break that stress ball while I’m at it. I know Helen is working on those painkillers for the unholy metabolism of a spider kid, but…”

“It’s fine, Mr. Stark, a few stitches can’t be worse than getting stabbed.”

“Dunno about that one, kid. At least when you’re stabbed it’s a quick, in-out deal.” 

Peter snorts, but his face is pale. 

“Are you trying to comfort me? You suck at it big time.”

“You’ll be fine. I’ve stitched up plenty of wounds. Although they’re mostly yours.” Tony huffs. Peter tries to not look at the needle in his hand and instead clenches his fists in the thin hospital bed sheets. 

“Yeah, yeah, I kn- ow,” His voice cuts as the needle pierces his sensitive skin, “ow. Ow ow ow ow.  _ God, _ that feels gross.”

“Then maybe don’t get stabbed.” Tony says grumpily. 

And then,

“Sorry that it hurts, kid.” Tony mumbles. His expression is a wince. 

Peter sighs, “It's fine, really. Rather I get injured than let someone else be dead.” Even as his mouth twitches under a grimace. 

“I take it that noble intentions can’t cohabit with self preservation?” 

“You know it, Mr. Stark.” 

A sigh. “Well. Just don’t go dying on me. Or I’ll fistfight whatever is out there to bring you back kicking and screaming.” 

“I can manage that.” 

“Please, do.”


	12. “Don’t move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> japanese is a very confusing language but I love it. that’s just today’s fact.

May wakes up to a thump and a muffled curse from down the hallway. Immediately she wakes up, wide awake and alert. The night air is cold. 

When she listens closely, May hears another hissed exclamation and a low growl. 

But she isn’t afraid of it. Because that voice belongs to Peter. 

Wait. 

_ That’s Peter.  _

If he’s up this late at night, even after curfew… 

He’s injured. 

And that, more than any other intruding thought or feeling, is what has May up on her feet. With hands trembling from the cold, she ties her dressing gown around her pyjama-clad waist and pads out of her room down the hall. She yawns as she’s treading towards the voice — she didn’t check the time, but it has to be la- early by now.

Something clatters against the floor, followed by a harsh thudding that sounds about approximate to somebody of Peter’s weight falling over. May jogs the rest of the way to the kitchen area, alarm flooding her veins, to see Peter, in his suit, half-sprawled on the floor and trying to pick himself back up. 

“Don’t move.” May says, trying to inject as much authority into her voice as possible when still half-asleep. Peter freezes, and groans before rolling onto his back. He waves slowly. 

“Hi.” He says, casually, like the blood on the linoleum floor is nothing to be remotely panicked about. 

The exhaustion draped over May’s shoulders evaporates in an instant, and she’s down on her knees by Peter’s side in the same second. 

“Hey, hey, what happened? Baby? What happened?” May mumbles. Peter tugs off his mask — aside from a forming black eye, there are no cuts there to fret over. 

“Ugh. Don’t remember. It’s just a graze- don’ worry ‘bout it.” Peter replies, closing his eyes to lean back. May takes what he said in — can’t remember what happened, black eye. Concussion, then. 

“Alright, off with the suit,” May says before she walks toward the lounge’s couch and snagging the blanket. When she turns back, the suit has been worked off of Peter’s shoulders to expose- 

It’s a long gouge, but nothing lethal. In fact, for the first time ever, it looks like Peter was right in saying it was just a graze. Hooray for small miracles. 

May chucks the blanket over Peter’s shoulders as he unsteadily stands up, wavering the entire time he walks toward the couch. He makes sure to flop onto his back. 

May grabs the first aid kid Peter had been wrestling with and brings it with her to the living room. 

Bandages, disinfectant, and a decent rest. Really, that’s all that Peter needs to heal. And a nice meal in the morning. May yawns. 

“Did try to be quiet.” Peter mumbles. His eyes are closed. Poor thing must be tired. 

“You don’t need to be, baby. I’m off work tomorrow. I can help you, you know.” May gently rubs a disinfectant wipes across the wound, rubbing Peter’s arm with her spare hand when he winces, until she deems it clean. 

It was a decent injury to treat, for once. Not too wide open or too deep, and a clean cut. Small miracles. 

“Yeah, I know… didn’ wanna wake you up, though.” 

“Up you get. Gotta bandage that up.” 

Peter sits up, and as carefully as possible when dead exhausted, May winds some bandaging around his torso until the injury is wrapped up. When she’s done, Peter lies back down gently, tugging the blanket over his shoulders. It’s not the best, him still half-wearing the suit, but he needs to rest now. 

“Thanks, May.”

“It isn’t a problem, baby. Now get some sleep.” 

“Larb you.”

“I love you too, Peter.”


	13. Adrenaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly i'm just winging it now

Over the past few weeks, adrenaline has become such a common occurrence in Peter’s day-to-day life that, well, he’s almost gotten used to it. That lightning strike thrill of energy buzzing under his skin, the raw energy at his fingertips to vault across rooftops and bench press cars with almost no effort- 

Since that spider bite, everything has been looking up. He doesn’t get winded after long runs anymore — hell, he can suddenly run laps around even the fastest kids in his gym class without even breaking a sweat. Hiding that has been a pain in the ass — and it doesn’t help that Flash is always trying his patience. He’s stronger and faster, too, because he hasn’t missed a single ride to school over these weeks, and one time, when his bus slammed to a halt, he’s pretty sure he left grip marks on the overhead railing. So that’s awesome. 

Adrenaline has become his partner in crime. Whenever he can, Peter slips out of him room to free roam around Queens. The thrill of it all is intoxicating, even if the lights have been starting to give him migraines more and more often recently. 

Having such ability is new to him. 

He can’t get enough of the thrill. Even when he hears things on the horizon, terrible things — he would  _ like _ to intervene and help, but… 

Dark goings on aside, Peter loved the thrill of using his abilities in secret. 

The air is cold. 

The sirens in the distance are blisteringly loud. 

Why is there so much blood?

On his knees, ears ringing still, eyes tearing up from the incessant bright lights piercing him, the lack of mental acuity is disturbing. There’s this itching feeling sat at the back of his skull, dissipating now, but it’s there nonetheless, and Ben- 

Ben-

He’s on the floor. Peter is next to him. Their hands are both covered in blood. Peter is shaking. 

He’s shaking. 

It won’t stop. 

He’s trying, but it. 

won’t. 

stop. 

bleeding. 

The adrenaline has abandoned him now, left him cold and jittering and so goddamn  _ desperate _ for that burst of energy, so he can push down on the wound a little stronger, so he could have gotten here a little faster, so he could have done a little better- 

The arms on his shoulders that are pulling him away are much stronger than he will ever be. He fights them- he tries, he kicks and punches and screams until his throat is raw and Ben won’t wake up anymore, his eyes are closed and he’s looking up at the murky, cloudy sky, and there’s blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and Peter’s heart is punching against his ribcage, his lungs are breathless, his mind is swimming, he’s-

He’s- 

The last vestiges of adrenaline exit his body and the last thing he sees before collapsing into nothing is Ben’s lifeless body sprawled in front of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let iida tenya say fuck 2k19


	14. Tear-stained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my workload is getting super stressful. sorry this is so late.

The wind around him is cold. 

It tastes like rust, and salt, and death. It smells of, just very slightly, the sickeningly sweet stench of decay. 

The grayish dust on his hand screams at him. It’s mixed in with his own coagulating blood, cold and sticky on his fingers, and is so utterly unignorable that it hurts. 

Tony’s breath shudders. 

The sky is orange. It’s not a beautiful sunset orange though, no, it’s the orange of a sun-seared planet — of a looming fate that won’t be escaped. Titan was a life-supporting planet like Earth, once. Once. 

His fingers twitch, pulling apart blood-sealed fingers with a ripping of clots, and the dust remains there. 

It’s too silent. Nebula, behind him, is stoic and completely quiet, face expressionless but eyes grieving. 

Tony numbly looks down to his knees. In front of him. 

Just a few meters away, Strange and the merry band of space folk used to be standing. 

In front of him, Peter was once begging for his life. For Tony to save him. 

And he couldn’t. He couldn’t do a damn thing. 

He doesn’t try to hide the way tears fall to his hands. The droplets carve paths through the bloody dirt on his hands. 

And now, he’s alone. It’s his fault, really: nothing he could have imagined during the Ultron fiasco ever would have had the world prepared enough to fend off Thanos. It’s his fault for not trying harder. It’s his fault for not being better. It’s his fault that half of the universe has just been erased clean from existence, it’s his fault that Peter- 

That Peter-

Oh, god. Tony shudders as a breeze runs over him. May. Who will tell her. Is she even still alive? Shit. Pepper. Rhodey. Happy. His family. Are they alive? 

Peter. 

Peter’s gone. Crying and apologizing —  _ apologizing, _ who the hell apologizes for dying — he’s gone now and it’s his fault for not being enough to hold of that grape-looking shitfuck of a bastard. 

He can’t breathe anymore. His lungs won’t stop convulsing. His cheeks are damp and his tears are washing the blood and dust — what’s left of his kid — away for good. 

He can’t speak. Nebula won’t speak. It’s far too quiet. It’s impossible to speak. He can’t do it. 

Because if he speaks, and he doesn’t wake up in a cold sweat at home, he isn’t sure he’ll survive the knowledge that this is real. 

That the nightmare he’s been having is real. 

That all his effort, and the nightmare he’d been living, was not enough of a sacrifice to keep his world safe. 

He lost the kid. 

He lost Peter. He couldn’t do anything to even bring him comfort. 

He couldn’t do a damned thing. 

And now his kid is dead. And maybe his family is too. 

Tony closes his eyes, and bows his head to rest on his hand. 


	15. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm publising the next 3 today, because my workload is impossible and i'm stressed haha

He doesn’t see them very often, but that’s not to say he never sees them at all. 

Every time he  _ does _ get to see them, Tony Stark has to ask himself just how many times Peter Parker got injured before Germany and the Accords, for him to have so many scars littering his body. 

He knows the ones that have appeared since then — given that it’s primarily him or Helen tasked with putting Peter back together, especially after missions. But the point still stands that there are dozens of them, ranging from small and near-unnoticeable to massive and ragged, patchwork scars across his torso and arms. 

Worst part of it is that Peter doesn’t quite seem to grasp just how many of his scars used to be injuries that could have killed him. Tony hates the memories of them — all the blood that’s been spilt over his hands while piecing his kid back together with a needle and thread. 

But really, Tony thinks the thing that haunts him the most aren’t the scars that he recognises, but the ones that he doesn’t. Peter doesn’t tell epic stories of who he saved to get those marks, no, he stays quiet about them and takes every one of them as punishment for not saving his Uncle — he never talks about what happened to him before Germany. 

Tony recognises a puckered bullet hole just under his shoulder; a glancing injury but still — the kid would have been what, fourteen, fifteen, and patching up a goddamn bullet wound by himself, in the dark and alone? 

There are patches that look like they’ve come from high-speed crashes, too — like the skin on his arms had been partially degloved, and the healing process never fully restored it to full health. Those patchwork scars litter Peter’s arms, his back. 

He’s seen a jagged line too, sat just above his hip. Probably from a steak knife or some other serrated blade. He can’t imagine how painful that one must have been — and he can’t suppress the horror, the cold dry ice that replaces the blood in his veins when he imagines a younger, more vulnerable, less protected Peter Parker having to take care of that one by himself — it’s one of the (many) things that keeps Tony up at night sometimes. He can’t not imagine it, most of those nights where his guilt has him wide awake and drowning. 

How many times did Peter get injured and patch himself back up before anyone got involved to help him? 

That’s why there’s so much on the suit. When he first made it, all the way back then, he’d just seen some unbelievably talented, enhanced kid who could probably do with an upgrade and less weapons pointed in his direction. Just something to protect him a little bit more than that hoodie-and-sweatpants monstrosity he called a suit. 

Then he met Peter Parker. Then he fought with him. Then he supported, scolded, and praised him. 

And now they’re Tony Stark and Peter Parker instead of Mr. Stark and the kid. Now Tony’s upgrades are a little more specialised to help rescue that poor kid from injuries. 

Thicker, more resistant materials to protect his arms and torso from the staple risk of high-speed collisions that comes from web slinging. 

Vibranium nanoparticles to deflect bullets and make knives glance off of him, to redistribute the otherwise lethal kinetic energy the kid risks meeting every day. 

Everything Tony does for that kid, he does to help keep him safe. 

He snorts. 

Now when did that happen?


	16. Pinned down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone end me

Peter’s scream is what snaps him back to full awareness. It’s loud, it cuts out halfway through before coming back but worse, and- 

He can hear Peter crying through it. Or more so, his strained gasping, and the thrashing of his limbs. 

Tony’s arms jolt. He curses. How did he forget how strong this kid is? 

Tony blinks back tears and pins Peter’s arm down with renewed effort. 

“Keep him still, Tony.” Helen says lowly. In her gloved hands are a cruel-looking pair of medical tweezers, and between the metal’s grip, a bloodied piece of jagged shrapnel. Peter gasps, and bucks against his grip, keening loudly. Tony screws his eyes shut and tries desperately to avoid looking at the mangled wound in the kid’s gut. Opposite him, his Iron Man suit holds down both of Peter’s legs as they kick out. 

“I’m sorry, Peter.” He says. Peter doesn’t hear him speak, crying like he is. 

It’s the anaesthetic. Or, the lack thereof. 

Not even the stuff they used on Cap has been enough to fully take the kid’s pain away. His metabolism is way too fast — and way more intense than anything he or Helen have seen before. 

“Shit. Tony, hold him.” He presses down harder, and Peter nearly flings him for his efforts. 

What had been enough anaesthetic to kill a herd of elephants, was only enough to put Peter fully under for about half an hour — and taking all the metal out of the kid is delicate,  _ delicate _ work. Tony had been fretting and observing the necessary surgery when Helen’s face pinched, sending a cold stab of fear into his gut, and Peter’s expression flickered to one of pain. 

And in the end, they were having to torture a kid to save his life. Obviously incoherent from pain and unaware of his surroundings, Peter has been fighting back against the people holding him down since he woke up. 

Tony blinks, curses, and shakes his head. There’s absolutely no way this won’t join his nightmares. It’s one thing to watch a grown man die. 

It’s another thing to watch a child plead for their lives and beg for the pain — pain he shouldn’t even be in — to stop. 

In a way, it’s a miracle when Helen pulls a long, wicked piece of metal out of the kid, and mumbles, “That’s the last one.” 

Tony can’t pull away yet, though. Instead, he holds Peter’s hand in one of his own and lets the kid crush it in his grip, still slurring out nonsense as Helen cleans up and sutures it shut. 

There’s blood everywhere. Inside the small plastic dish sits thirteen pieces of jagged shrapnel, varying lengths and widths that had nestled into Peter’s gut and damn near killed him. Tony stares at the metal like it could undo the damage it did. 

Nothing changes. 

Even after Helen begins tidying away medical equipment and supplies, even as Peter is moved to his room and the blood is washed off of him — the kid’s expression still bears the echoes of the pain he was in not a few hours ago, and the metal weight in Tony’s stomach doesn’t fade as a result. 

At the end of the day, after May had come to check up on Pete and headed back home again, Tony sits next to the hospital bed and holds the kid’s hand. Helen said that he’d had a couple of small bones fractured because of Peter’s grip — yet he can’t bring himself to hold it against the kid. Because he shouldn’t have jumped in front of him like that. And realistically, Peter was in more pain than he could, at that moment, comprehend. 

Tony falls asleep with a frown on his face, securely grasping his kid’s hand as if to let himself know that he was still there. 


	17. "Stay with me!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mario scares me sometimes.

“Ugh.”

Peter wakes up with a groan. His head is positively swimming, hazy thoughts only briefly rising to the surface before sinking back below into the depths of nothingness once more. 

It’s quite dark out. Meaning, he can’t even see his own hands in it. The absolute lack of light only increases the daze in his head, because- 

Because- 

What time is it? What happened? Why did his head hurt so much?

“You with me, kid?” A voice asks. Peter makes a noncommittal hum and drums his fingers on the ground below him, mindlessly blinking up — at least, what he  _ thinks _ is up — to a ceiling. 

“Good. Then stay with me.” They say. They don’t  _ sound _ too far away, but then again, with the grogginess in his brain he may well have been hit in the head recently, so who’s to say there’s a person even there at all? 

“Nope, I’m pretty sure I exist, kid.” The voice says. Peter snorts, then winces as the noise sends an explosion of pain landing through his skull. 

He’s got no concrete proof of that. 

“Nrgh.” He grunts. He blinks furiously at the ceiling-thing, clenching his fists in rhythm. The fog in his head is thick and impenetrable, not to mention a  _ giant pain in the ass.  _

“You hurt?” They ask. Peter thinks. 

Yes. He is. “Ow.”

“That’s a big yes. Hurt as in, ‘ow, a scratch’ or hurt as in, ‘I don’t want to alarm you but I am in fact dying’?” The voice-  _ Tony _ asks. Even as unfocused as he is, Peter can nearly  _ taste _ the poorly veiled concern in his tone. He weakly shakes his head, even though it won’t be seen. 

“First.” Yeah — his head is killing him and he might be bleeding from it, but other than that, he feels pretty alright. As in, not about to perish under a building- 

He sucks in a breath as a few pieces click back into place — except, they’re all fragmented memories  _ from the wrong time.  _

Man. Toomes was a  _ dick.  _

He’s cold. Very, very cold. Peter realises this as his body begins to tremble, though that’s because of the unhelpful dose of trauma and not from the chill. He’s also  _ absolutely shit scared of being stuck under buildings, _ but who needs to pay that any mind whatsoever?

With a weak hand, Peter searches through the small piles of rocks blindly until he reaches something that decidedly feels like a human arm. 

“What’s up, kid?” Tony asks — he sounds surprised by Peter’s sudden contact. 

“The sky.” He croaks back. A tired, hoarse laugh escapes Tony. 

“Yeah. Let’s just hang in there, kid. You with me?”

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> it sure is nice to be back. looking at all my other WIPs, i came to the realisation that the reason i struggle to complete them is because i'm so familiar with the plots that i get kinda bored about them. this is a nice change of pace.
> 
> EDIT [16/10/19]: my workload at college just hit an all time high!! between work and education I have hardly any time to myself. In short, I’m only doing the first seventeen prompts! I’m out of brain juices. Sorry.


End file.
